


Meander Through Limbo

by Yayauhqui



Series: Stillness in Motion [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Domestic Fluff, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Older Man/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yayauhqui/pseuds/Yayauhqui
Summary: Following an incident that renders him hors de combat, Tarn has no choice but to step back from his duties and heed recovery protocol. As he spends much needed time with those he's grown to care deeply for, he contemplates his role in their lives, laments on his own mortality, and battles the lingering shadows of his past.
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Tarn
Series: Stillness in Motion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693000
Comments: 12
Kudos: 9





	Meander Through Limbo

**Author's Note:**

> Mind if I catapult my way into this battleship? Now featuring: battleship family!
> 
> **Important**  
> While Tarn and Deathsaurus are fully grown, mature men with their own thoughts and desires, there is a significant age gap between the two. If that is not to your liking, then I would suggest for you to look for other reading material.
> 
> Content warnings in this chapter include (all in particular order): symptoms of panic disorder and anxiety disorder, amelia (birth defect of lacking one or more limbs), descriptions of a physical injury, use of craniofacial prostheses (nose and ears), and a very brief description of two burn victims.
> 
> A personal and sincere thank you to those who have encouraged me to keep on writing.

The sea was finally placid today after gorging its fill of a calamitous storm the night before. Such was its fickle nature, a risk far more prominent than what Tarn was accustomed to, having had spent most of his travels above the clouds.

Between the abnormally monstrous rogue waves that had almost capsized the Warworld crew's last remaining minehunter and their hurried exchange amongst themselves that the ominous roar of the fabled Phantom Fleet's engines, despite the Warworld's radar detecting no outsider threat of any sort, had caused the disturbance, Tarn realized that momentary madness was, too, part of the battered parcel of seafaring.

Thankfully the _Peaceful_ _Tyranny—_ made of the finest durasteel Decepticon naval engineering could offer and therefore could withstand a vast array of harsh elements, one would note _—_ had not endured an unnecessary beating by the winds as it was residing in the Warworld's main hangar, further protected from an unpredictable environment.

With half lided eyes, Tarn leaned back into his divan, ignoring the phantom aches that approached from an unknown territory. He would have to speak with Nickel soon.

Minor repairs for the minehunter were still being carried out. By the morrow, when all was well, if the Cause willed it, the Warworld would set course for its original route to Mexico.

Tarn attempted to relax for the umpteenth time as a random breeze from a nearby open window aerated his room, providing a small level of relief from the heat that was accumulating around him. 

A seashell horn sounded off six times in the distance, signaling the dusking skies and the conclusion of the day shift. Dozens of voices celebrated with a bout of ululation.

Tarn closed his eyes.

 _Breathe in_.

Tarn inhaled. His heart skipped a beat. It almost alarmed him. Frightened him, even. 

A few seconds passed. He held his breath out of terrible habit.

_Breathe out_.

Tarn exhaled.

The rising pitch of multiple synthesizers intermingled with a faraway rāga, pulling Tarn in as the sitar's first few notes calmed him, but only for a moment. Even a tasteful selection couldn't keep a connoisseur leveled and listening for more.

His body spiraled from a hot flash. The sting of unease swamped his senses. He flexed his cold and numb hands. 

Tarn dug his fingers into cushioning, trying to steady himself. The room seemed to tilt too far on one side.

_Breathe in_.

He just couldn't bring himself to do so as he grunted, his throat tightening more and more with every attempt to swallow. Nausea crept to the brim of his self-control and drowned it with no reprieve. He bent forward quickly and gagged. Somehow, pain radiated through him, but from where exactly, Tarn didn't know. His firing nerves made him feel he was under attack. 

In renewed panic, he tapped his chest rapidly, gentle not to inflict harm but firm enough to redirect his attention elsewhere. There wasn't anything inherently beneficial about the repetitive motion, but it didn't hurt to try and ground himself before the worst could ravage him completely. 

_Breathe in!_

Tarn finally inhaled. His heart paced quickly and almost painfully, then it fluttered again. Beads of sweat ran down his face. He tried to ignore it. His head hung low as if it were overstuffed with cement, heavy enough to push against the back of his eyeballs. He tried to ignore that, too.

_Breathe out_.

Tarn exhaled.

A tiny hand caressed his left cheek without any meaningful direction. It felt warm to the touch. Something indefinable—something _powerful_ —rushed through him like the icy waters of a high tide along the black sand beaches of Delphi. He flinched from the electrifying sensation, halting his plunge into a swivet. His breathing soon adopted a steady pattern.

Most of his individual ailments ebbed away with each passing breath, but heat lingered at the back of his head, keeping him in a haze. He granted himself another moment to recuperate.

When he felt adequately balanced, Tarn opened his eyes, blinking as his vision refocused. He was actually lounging about in Deathsaurus' master suite, sitting on an old rocking recliner. Aside from Deathsaurus' apparent absence, everything, for the moment Tarn was semi aware, seemed normal.

Tarn was no stranger to handling his panicked moods at random, although he wasn't certain as to why these episodes were increasing in number. Each one was becoming more disorienting than the last. It took even longer to recover. 

Where _was_ the lorazepam when Tarn needed it. Well, not that Tarn actually _needed_ it. Ever since Nickel had made him switch to propranolol his outcomes had been considerably favorable. But in the midst of his internal chaos Tarn would very much rather wallow in sedation and immediately silence the shrieks of distress that racked his body and mind.

Pressure and slight movement across Tarn's lap prompted Tarn to look down, now even more conscious of the little hand that was still touching his face. It was at this very moment he finally noticed that he was not wearing his mask.

A small tot, no older than what one would estimate to be a year, or perhaps a few months passed that, was perched on him. Lengthy tufts of hair covered the tot's face, likely preventing any proper vision.

Ah, yes, Tarn remembered now. He had insisted that he would watch over Deathsaurus' heir apparent to the throne. For a short while, of course.

Tarn chuckled despite his periodic tremors. He rested his head in his left palm, his elbow comfortably propped on the armrest. With his right hand he gently brushed away the hair and tucked it behind each ear. He couldn't stop himself from beaming as sweet brown eyes met with his own.

"Hello, you," Tarn murmured. 

Solon gurgled a nondescript response with a gummy smile, revealing his lower front teeth that were barely showing. He was late in this particular growth stage. Better than no teeth at all, Tarn supposed. 

Solon's eyes began to droop, the calming aftereffects of a warm bath working its way across his slumping form. His round and chubby belly was also pleasantly full from the milk and puréed sweet potatoes. He yawned long and deep, almost tempting Tarn to yawn right back. Any minute now and Solon would be ready for bed.

Tarn wouldn't mind an early retirement for the night, too, if it weren't for a preplanned engagement with the Warworld commander. The harrowing ordeal of his latest episode had nearly drained him. Perhaps he could rest his eyes. At least until Deathsaurus came back.

Without much encouragement Solon settled himself on top of Tarn's chest, his head nestled above Tarn's heart. Tarn proceeded with utmost respect to Solon's bare necessity just as he'd always done. He held Solon close and pressed a quick kiss to Solon's crown, then crooned an old lullaby from a particular time in his life so distant it was unfathomable that he was once a child himself. 

The soft, tingling rumble of his notorious power was purposely woven into his voice. Oh, how troubling it would be if one thought that Tarn was so callous, utilizing his dastardly talent by singing a fragile being to sleep, and yet unbeknownst to outsiders Tarn's warm tone and flawless alteration of pitch could even tame the most feral of minds. Not only did he obliterate corruption as everyone rightfully assumed, he also created solace for those who deserved him at his most nurturing.

He continued his melody until the babe's breathing slowed. 

Tarn noticed that the upper left sleeve of Solon's onesie was slipping. He adjusted the sleeve back into place, careful not to disturb Solon. Being that Solon had been born without a left arm it was common for his clothing to fit awkwardly. Still the DJD leader fretted over even the slightest dishevelled appearance the babe could be displaying.

Gingerly, Tarn shifted his own body, then he hissed as an excruciating bolt of pain surged through his right foot, reminding him for the umpteenth of the position he was in, literally and figuratively. Oh, how he hated to be reminded.

Tarn stared at the sorry sight before him. His foot was elevated by a stack of pillows at the end of the recliner's footrest. A walking brace supported his ankle, partially immobilizing him. Quite the predicament to be in.

What had begun as a scheduled restock in Japan for the Warworld's food supply ended prematurely when Tarn had injured himself during the end of a jaunt with Deathsaurus. A grade three sprained ankle, of all things, had forced the feared leader of the Decepticon Justice Division out of commission.

There was little room for questioning as to why Deathsaurus had been initially hesitant to place Solon under Tarn's limited care, even with Tarn's soft assurances. Horror mercilessly gripped Tarn's heart when he realized that Solon could have fallen backwards had he lost himself in his panic, stood up, and toppled over from the sheer agony of pressing any amount of weight on his foot.

Tarn begrudgingly accepted that his injury was a hindrance. Bounded to wasteful inactivity, unable to provide any help beyond cuddling a child on his lap and keeping him under good spirits for however long until Deathsaurus came back. Nevertheless, he could take pride in knowing that his services, inexperienced as he was, were sought after when someone far more competent could take over. 

He distanced himself from the hurtful notion that Deathsaurus, in spite of their excellent repertoire, still didn't trust him around Solon. That Deathsaurus' rare decision to grant Tarn such responsibility was an absolute last resort because the warlord's closest associates were heavily occupied themselves.

Currently, Tarn was on his seventh day of short-term military leave. He never thought he would give way to an injury as trivial as this one. Trivial. Hah. Denial was a useful coping tool in downplaying the severity of his condition. Only when he felt minimal pain did he dare question his ineptude during an idle pastime.

Tarn had underestimated the hidden dangers of seasonal changes. Since when did black ice take form in Okinawa prefecture? Deathsaurus had recalled that the phenomena was uncommon, but it could be anticipated even in temperatures above the freezing level. _Lovely_. 

A quarter of the Warworld crew had allocated a portion of the budget and scattered about the city of Naha to replenish their inventory. Tarn had accompanied Deathsaurus to purchase some personalized beverages from a local distillery in Shuri district.

Just as they'd made their way through the port, arm in arm, Tarn had slipped and fallen on the pavement. A loud, fleshy pop had resounded through the chilly air. Some of the glass bottles Tarn had carried in a bag broke as they'd crashed onto the floor. He'd nearly pulled Deathsaurus, who'd also been caught off guard, to the ground with him.

Tarn had felt absolutely mortified beyond all measure, and he'd thanked the Cause that no one else aside his lover witnessed the fearsome leader of the Decepticon Justice Division fall flat on his rear end. He'd even lost two craniofacial prostheses from the impact. Only his nose had been salvaged.

As Deathsaurus had assessed the situation, a prickling wave of dread had washed over Tarn when he'd realized he was not able to stand up without the warlord's assistance. The adrenaline rush had abated and a throbbing pain had seared through his right foot. He'd thought he fractured a bone.

Even worse, Deathsaurus had thought it wise to bring one arm under Tarn's legs and the other arm to support Tarn's back, then sweep him right off his feet with ease, holding Tarn as if he were a rescued damsel in some classic action film and carrying him back to the _Thunder Arrow_. Tarn had _almost_ protested, even as he'd instinctively wrapped his arms around his lover's sturdy shoulders, feeling the flexing muscles beneath that coat. _Almost_.

It had been a humiliating event explaining to Nickel about what had happened. There had been no qualms about working outside of his room in his delicate condition, lest Tarn desired to face Nickel's ire. Doctor's orders above all else, after all.

The indulgence of free time between office hours, however, did little to balm his flaring anger. Deathsaurus' praise and attentiveness had somewhat nursed Tarn's wounded ego. If only Tarn could enjoy the extra attention without new uncertainties looming over a muddled resolution.

This was not supposed to happen. None of this was part of the plan. What good was Tarn on the battlefield when he couldn't move or walk, much less stand? The hunt for Megatron would be postponed until he healed, and that could be _months_ from now. 

Which meant more time wasted by waiting. Extra precautions to consider. Medical resources drained when they could be used for a momentous battle that was slowly but surely slipping from Tarn's increasingly frantic grasp.

The beautiful prospect of a bloodied, battered, weakened Megatron on his knees, his silver hair knotted in Deathsaurus' steel grip, his defined jaw jutting upwards so that he may gaze upon his executioner steadily became a fantasy instead of an impending reality.

Tarn still couldn't believe it. In the great expanse of his career, Tarn had been dragged, bludgeoned, stabbed, burned, poisoned, gassed, stomped on, blasted at, shot at; oh, the works. Every typical act of violence inflicted by an enemy had not been debilitating enough.

And yet, and _yet_! A torn ligament from a weather related fall left him physically disadvantaged. Hopefully not permanently, should physiotherapy alleviate his incapacity.

Anthroscopy would be considered at some point. Only if his ankle didn't get any better, that was. A minimally invasive proceedure with a fairly high success rate, he'd been told by the Warworld's chief medical officer, but Tarn sustained a terrible habit of letting the better half of his reasoning take a nosedive into ill-concealed paranoia.

The very thought of being unable to walk properly if all else failed chilled Tarn with a sense of foreboding. To him, it was _a_ _nother_ problem to worry about. 

Deathsaurus' nonchalant behavior distressed Tarn, most of all. As if he were unbothered by their sudden change in plans. _Unbothered_ by Tarn's _suffering_. Each passing day that the warlord seemingly chose not to address Tarn's _—_ _their_ _—_ new concerns was an additional weight to Tarn's burden.

Would Tarn feel better if Deathsaurus acknowledged the obstacles thrown in front of them? Would it assuage his frustration? Would Tarn be succored then? Validation was an elixir to his inadequacies and he was shameless enough to entreat for just a drop of it.

Tarn's own crew supported him the way all subordinates supported their superior, with well wishes and suitable accommodations that didn't come off as patronizing. Though Kaon understandably struggled with Tarn's request not to hover over him, it was best for everyone involved to proceed with their individual duties as usual. Tarn would not impose a burden on those who did not deserve it, either.

But his apparent bravado could not further betray the truth. For once, in perhaps decades, he wanted someone to legitimize his fears. Because only the universe knew that Megatron didn't.

By the Cause, Tarn just didn't want to deal with this alone. 

Agitation singed his higher thinking. The DJD leader wasn't one to discuss his troubles with anyone. Kaon was, of course, the exception, but even the closest of companions do not always disclose their deepest passions or their darkest revelations.

Tarn was, first and foremost, a realist. More so with a pessimistic streak after Megatron deserted the Decepticon Cause; _abandoned_ Tarn and _consorted_ with the _enemies_.

It was futile to push against a losing battle. For his own sake, Tarn would try and wish for the best. Positivity could be helpful but there was a fine line between hope and ebullience.

There wasn't much to do about his circumstances other than rest, relieve the pain and swelling, and prepare for his rehabilitation regimen with Vos. With or without medical authorization, Tarn would resume his duty as leader and fulfill his mission.

Impaired or not.

A loud sizzle startled Tarn from his thoughts. Tarn looked down at Solon, who was fortunately still asleep. He then pinpointed the source of the noise near the minibar, watching as Deathsaurus fanned steam away from a pan on a portable stove. A small pot simmered next to the pan.

Tarn didn't hear Deathsaurus enter the room. Judging by the small pile of seemingly random ingredients that was settled across the counter, Deathsaurus likely had rummaged through the galley's refridgerator, and right before it was time for most of the troops to occupy the mess hall. 

Was Tarn that distracted? He should have at least caught the soft clicks of a door opening and closing or the sharp clang of cooking utensils against metal. Tarn held back a sigh, biting the inside of his right cheek. Definitely not one of his finest hours as a man of keen precision. 

Their eyes met and Deathsaurus sheepishly mouthed the word 'sorry' before he turned down the flame. Tarn snorted, the right corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

Deathsaurus had invited Tarn over for a home cooked meal and a chance to spend the night. A commemorative date, perhaps? Tarn didn't want to embarrass himself by asking. It was their first year anniversary together as a serious couple, so Tarn couldn't help but think this was a special occasion.

Normally, Tarn would make an evening meal for them both twice a week in the privacy of his own quarters, bridging the warlord a small taste of fine kréyol la lwizyàn hospitality. Sometimes he would invite Deathsaurus to dine with him and the rest of the DJD, disregarding the initial flow of complaints that nevertheless poured from two or three of his subordinates. One look from Tarn and they would close their mouths. Defiance from his crew was rare but Tarn did not hesitate to crush it like an iron curtain. They seemed to have forgotten that Deathsaurus was an honored guest and an important ally!

_He's also your boyfriend_ , Tarn thought to himself, warmth gathering in his cheeks. His heart raced at the mere word. Boyfriend. Heh.

Tarn promised himself that he would be mature about his relationship status, but this happiness was a fleeting, fragile feather seldom caught in the wind, was it not? He considered himself exceedingly lucky to seize it at the right moment with just the tips of his fingers.

It was like Tarn had taken one more desperate shot at love by spinning that dastardly wheel of life, and to his nervous surprise, a young, recently divorced, and frustratingly handsome single dad had marched into the ring, complete with sleepless nights, nursery rhymes on repeat, formula stains in places it shouldn't be, and the ever crucial inquiry: 'so, you like kids?'

Tarn's feelings for Deathsaurus sank deep into territory too complicated for the average boor to understand. It was similar to or perhaps even deeper than that of his torturous love for Megatron, may the betrayed taconite miners of yore forgive Tarn's blasphemy.

The savory scent of Deathsaurus' cooking brought forth an appreciative hum from Tarn. Whatever Deathsaurus was making reignited his appetite and kept his misplaced anxiety at bay. And for now he decided to let his problems be swept away by the winds of the sea in favor of enjoying what the night's future activities had to offer. 

Tarn watched Deathsaurus slice something that looked to be a small block of tofu. Deathsaurus was focused on his task, his eyebrows furrowing in a way that Tarn found so endearing. Tarn observed Deathsaurus' appearance of choice, which, he noticed, was different from the usual tactical apparel. 

The warlord's thick and dark sable mane was styled in a loose braid, a small strand slipping out little by little. A cream khaki thermal top highlighted his impressive thews. He wore a pair of faded black sweatpants and, _why was Tarn not surprised_ , mismatched socks.

It was a good casual look on the rogue commander, regardless. The illusion of domesticity was a welcome distraction in a heavily militarized setting, even for just a few hours.

A bright flash startled the DJD leader. He squinted as the lights above the minibar reflected off something around Deathsaurus' left wrist. When Deathsaurus' sleeves rolled up just a notch or two Tarn realized it was...a bracelet?

Tarn focused again on the curious looking trinket. No, a bangle. A jadeite bangle, to be exact. In fact, Deathsaurus was wearing the jadeite bangle Tarn gave to him as a gift.

The bangle was a token of trust and appreciation from one competent leader to another. To a smaller extent it was also a clever reach on Deathsaurus' affinity for the near unobtainable. In this day and age, at least in Tarn's homeland, high end jewelry was reserved only for household names. Needless to say these important families occassionally became targets of piracy or ransom. 

Something Deathsaurus had no shame in admitting to Tarn on what he'd done to get his due. Business was business. If business turned sour, then Deathsaurus dealt with it swiftly. 

For the next few minutes, Tarn admired the reddish sheen of Deathsaurus' bangle. 

True natural jadeite happened to be one of the warlord's' favorite gemstones. Anything aesthetically pleasing _and_ of major monetary value were possible items of auction and trade where Deathsaurus was concerned, but he kept a personal collection that would put Trannis' horde or the supposedly undead Straxus' horde to shame. Tarn had hoped Deathsaurus safekept the bangle as an irreplaceable treasure.

And Deathsaurus did, as evidenced by his current adornment. The bangle was wide enough to fit either of those thickset wrists, just as Tarn hoped it would. Seeing the warlord wear or use the things he'd bought him made his heart swell with delight. Every carat was worth the price.

But Tarn didn't buy Deathsaurus such an expensive present out of the desire to manipulate, per se. Oh, no, it was done out of camaraderie. 

Hah. Eventually Tarn would have to make peace with his underlying motives.

Camaraderie and perhaps that strange, profound affection Tarn had never felt for anyone. Not for Shockwave. Not for Skids. Certainly not for Overlord, good gracious no.

...And not for Pharma, Tarn suddenly realized with utmost surprise.

Deathsaurus locked eyes with Tarn again, inadvertently making Tarn self-aware of his gawping. Deathsaurus winked at Tarn and blew a kiss, prompting Tarn to flush with embarrassment and look away, concentrating on a stray oil stain on the wall, his uncharacteristic show of timidity earning an amused chuckle in return.

An awkward smile made its way to Tarn's lips. He continued to stare at the wall, unsure of what to do or say. He wasn't usually caught off guard like this. Flirting back at someone was still a foreign concept to him. Deathsaurus often left him tongue-tied and thinking twice about his self perception.

Tarn, the infamous Tartarean smooth talker who coaxed the heart into giving up, was reduced to a vulnerable, loyal water sprite in the presence of La Bestia del Mar. Not that he was complaining, of course.

Was it such a horrible thing to _feel—t_ o _be_ vulnerable yet secure with a powerful force of nature who treated him like he _existed_ outside the bloodshed of war? He was afraid of the answer that nonetheless heightened his mood, so may his befallen Decepticon brothers and sisters strike him down the moment he believed otherwise.

Tarn would just leave it at that.

The psychedelic riff from Deathsaurus' speakers played softly, lowered at some point to a suitable indoor volume. The lights in the room were dimmed halfway, beckoning a more soothing atmosphere. Solon definitely benefited from the transition, still sleeping so peacefully in Tarn's hold.

Building enough nerve, Tarn looked at Deathsaurus again, who was now using the knife to push the remaining ingredients from the cutting board into the pan. His stomach growled loudly. Tarn was abashed yet amused at knowing what it was like to eagerly wait for a hot meal like Deathsaurus had done many times.

If only Tarn's— _Damus'—_ Catholic forebears and possible surviving relatives saw him living his new life now, shamelessly canoodling with one of the most notorious Class A felons on the clock like it was a mandatory activity and enabling what they would refer to as godless debauchery between two men, because the words 'love making' between two men would no doubt cause an uproar among them. 

Thankfully, his family would never bear witness to his new lot in life, and truth be told, they would have been totalled to the ground with the double whammy of a lifetime, discovering that their repressed and mousy Damus was the universal eldritch nightmare of many, maybe even their nightmare. Oh, he would have loved to see their reactions.

When a teenaged Damus had secretly come to terms with his attraction to men, he had navigated his youth around the rigid pillars of his family’s reputation and image, compounded by the old-line heritage that was deeply rooted in both French and Spanish ruled Louisiana. All the while hiding behind his mother’s well-meaning spiritual guidance when obnoxious, familiar faces had pushed their way into his business, specifically when that business involved his love life and short-lived religiosity.

From a cultural and religious viewpoint, no one knew the burden of expectation better than Damus. It'd been especially hilarious when his paternal grandfather had advised him to never date or marry a single mother. The light hearted direction had presented a serious overtone. If the afterlife existed, the stern patriarch was likely lamenting in his grave.

Unless Damus' lost cousins—some of whom were presumed deceased in recent years—established their own broods, the invisible, mortal force of biological impulse clung to him. He was likely one of the only surviving descendents who would not be able to preserve and continue the family name.

Tarn couldn't start his own family at this point, anyway. Even if he wanted to. Not as the yellow-belly he'd been as Damus, not as the aimless wanderer he'd posed as Glitch, and definitely not as the disillusioned monster he embodied now.

But, this was a real family, right? He, Deathsaurus, and Solon. The cliché three peas in a pod. This…connection with Deathsaurus. It felt genuine—no, it _was_ genuine. And just as expected, they worked together to provide some form of stability for Solon, showing him, as he got older, what a loving and healthy relationship looked like.

Well, as stable as it could be. No child should be brought up in a Warworld. It just wasn't fair. The ocean was a vixen who gave no care in the world to the marauders and freebooters that died in her serpentine grace. A youngling with no business in the world of degradation was no different to her.

Yet here was Solon, living his life at sea with a beast of a man who rode through the cruel waters like the legendary pirate king he was, along with a devoted, lethal army that would risk their lives for their newly crowned prince. Talk about already spoiled!

It was a far better outcome than what could have happened that fateful fiery night in Kakogawa, where a prematurely born Solon had been rescued from the rubble and melting debris. Solon's biological parents had been nearly unrecognizable through their charred remains. Such a damned pity, really. Deathsaurus had apparently known them.

In spite of the tragedy, Deathsaurus regarded Solon as the greatest jewel Fate bestowed to him. The warlord was an acquisitive brute with an eye for unlimited raw power, but he would not hesitate to give up his title, disband his army, halt his ordnance, and cast away his earthly possessions for a chance that Solon would be spared and given a chance to survive. 

Tarn saw the way Deathsaurus looked at that sweet baby boy. Complete adoration and unconditional love unmatched. Like a real father to his child. The purest love there was. 

It seemed that the warlord had desired an heir more than anything in the world. A child to cherish and to call his own. He was enamored of his role as father and he showed it proudly. 

Tarn chuckled silently. That memory of Deathsaurus making it clear to him just a couple days into their alliance that nothing or no one, not even Tarn, would rob him of his strength.

Solon was, undoubtedly, Deathsaurus' strength. If Tarn were any other Decepticon, he would have dismissed Deathsaurus' reasoning as an excuse for weakness. But he'd known the power of parental love firsthand, and just as Deathsaurus admired Tarn for not treating the DJD as cannon fodder, Tarn admired Deathsaurus for balancing the roles of leader and father in a high stress environment.

_"I'm a father first," Deathsaurus had murmured, cradling Solon as he eyed Tarn with a critical expression. "Everything else falls into place."_

Had the DJD kill Deathsaurus and the entire Warworld crew, there would have been no one to care for Solon, who'd only been twelve weeks old at the time. The thought of a baby becoming an orphan for the second time guilted him.

Tarn adhered to a strict moral code, pledging to never harm an innocent, especially a child, but he wasn't all too knowledgeable in the art of childrearing, had he taken Solon with him.

Ironically, Solon became a main fixture in Tarn's routine. It was inevitable, that he knew, and though Deathsaurus had never once pressured Tarn into adopting a fatherly role, Tarn had gradually gotten into the rhythm of participating in Solon's life without undermining Deathsaurus' parenting or cutting between the relationship that had been established long before he came into the picture.

Though Tarn had not anticipated his immersion into a realm so unlike his own, he'd grown so fond of the little water sprite who found sanctuary in his arms.

Tarn wouldn't want to be anywhere else but here _—here_ with the most important people in his life, even as his familial dynamic constantly, _painfully_ reminded him just who exactly was the true keeper of Deathsaurus' heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions/feedback/constructive criticism greatly appreciated.
> 
> ●Translations●  
> •Spanish•  
> La Bestia del Mar - The Beast of the Sea
> 
> •Kouri-Vini•  
> Kréyol la lwizyàn - Louisiana Creole
> 
> ●Cultural References●  
> •Rāga - Melodious rhythms and embellishments that are generally incorporated in Indian classical music and psychedelic rock music.


End file.
